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Consider the kittens, dressed in their finest bows and gathered around an elegant dining table, sharing afternoon scones and tea.

Or the bunnies at school, working away at their lesson plans, while a rogue rabbit, clearly punished for misbehaving, stands in the back, head hung in shame.

And then there are the squirrels, drinking and smoking and playing cards in their private clubhouse — luckier than the gambling rodents below, about to be busted by a rat cop.

These are but a few of the captivating and creepy tableaus created by Walter Potter, the leading British taxidermist of the Victorian era. They are pictured here, for the first time, in the incredible new book “Walter Potter’s Curious World of Taxidermy” (Blue Rider Press).

“A lot of people will look at this and go, ‘My God, who is this horrible man who killed these kittens and dressed them up in costume?’” says Joanna Ebenstein, the book’s photographer. “But you have to look at in the context of his time.”

In 19th century Britain, every small village had a taxidermist, and killing animals that overpopulated rural areas was common; many people kept stuffed animals in their homes as decoration.

As an art form, taxidermy exploded once pioneers such as Potter (no relation to Beatrix) began composing scenes in which animals took on human behaviors and displayed human emotion — likely inspired by the work of the German taxidemist Hermann Ploucquet, whose works were shown at London’s Great Exhibition of 1851.

Potter began his first true piece, “The Death & Burial of Cock Robin,” when he was 19 and working as a laborer. It was inspired by a children’s story, and it took him seven years to finish.

“Becoming rich was never his intention,” says Dr. Pat Morris, the book’s author. “He sold potted plants on the side to supplement his income.”

Potter, who married at 32 and had three children, lived in a house owned by his father, who also owned a West Sussex inn and pub frequented by local farmers and gamekeepers. They’d bring in their dead animals for Potter, and his works brought in so many tourists that his father gave him free lodging. His house eventually became something of a museum.

“He was in a well-placed holiday spot,” Dr. Morris says. “There were very frequent accounts in newspapers and on TV, and 1 million people went to this little place in total.”

Potter’s mixture of warped wit and deep tenderness elevate his work beyond kitsch. Today, it’s highly coveted by serious collectors, who have paid up to $40,000 for one tableau.

In “The Kitten Wedding,” for example, one male guest in the back is whispering into his date’s ear, while another male guest wears an expression of pure dismay — perhaps he missed his chance with the bride? For his gambling rodents in “The Lower Five,” Potter flattened out their facial features and pushed their eyes forward so they’d look more human.

After Potter’s death in 1918, at age 82, his tableaus were housed in two other locations, and finally went up for auction in 2010. They are now scattered among various collectors all over the world.

Ebenstein, who runs the 6-year-old Morbid Anatomy Library in Brooklyn (“We introduced an anthropomorphic taxidermy class and it was the most successful thing we’ve ever, ever, ever, ever, ever done”), is about to open the Morbid Anatomy Museum on April 18. The first major exhibit, slated for this summer: the work of Walter Potter.

“‘The Kitten Wedding’ is secured,” she says. “And it’s even better than the photographs.”